


Last Known Photo

by Juniper200



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Female Reader, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, Reader-Insert, Safe Sane and Consensual, Threesome - F/M/M, Until things get less sane, bisexual reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 08:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20355358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juniper200/pseuds/Juniper200
Summary: “You remind me of someone I know,” he says, and smiles. It’s a weird, lopsided smile, almost a smirk, and you can’t tell if it reaches his eyes, because he’s wearing sunglasses. Inside a damn-near pitch-dark club at one a.m., this guy is wearing sunglasses. He’s wearing sunglasses, his red hair has been product-ed into what you’re sure he thinks is a fashionable mess, and he’s wearing all black like some kind of Johnny Cash cosplay.Rude to the bartender and a poser to boot. He’s an entire toolbox.A story in which the reader gets picked up at a club and goes home with two gentlemen. Events unfold thereafter.





	Last Known Photo

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Tumblr denizens copperbadge, girlpearl and northofnormal for cheerleading.

You’ve been in London a month and a half, and you think you’re starting to get into the swing of it.

You’ve certainly gotten into the swing of this club, which isn’t for swingers per se, because every swinger you ever met was someone your parents’ age who liked to talk a little too much about _ethical non-monogamy_ when they really meant _screwing around_. They make you feel sorry for the actual ethical non-monogamists, who have been getting a bad rap by association.

God, how your mind wanders. You’re in London; you’re in Soho; you’re in a club; you’re on the dance floor. The bodies are tight around you, and your body is tight between an absolutely delicious girl in a nearly indecent blue dress and an absolute snack of a boy wearing a t-shirt and jeans that probably cost more than your rent. None of you came here together, but you found each other somehow, and the way the three of you are moving against each other and trading looks...it’s good. 

But it’s coming up on one in the morning, and it’s hot on the dance floor. You’ve not exactly drunk, but you _have_ been drinking steadily for hours. You start to feel the tingling at the base of your skull that heralds a bout of light-headedness, and you know this moment you’re having with Blue Dress and Expensive T-Shirt is about to end. You take his hand and squeeze, and you grind slowly down along her side, hoping your appreciation for the superficial connection you shared comes through in the gestures. Then you extricate yourself, squirm through the bodies between you and the smaller bar at the back of the club, and try to get the bartender’s attention so you can get a bottle of water. 

Bartenders have a sixth sense, you think, for when someone doesn’t want to order things that will result in a long tab and a decent tip. This one has sized you up as “Bottle of water. Priority: Lowest” and is studiously ignoring you while waiting on the other people at the bar.

“He’s a prick,” says a voice very near your ear. “It’d take him 10 seconds to get water out of the cooler. Maybe less, if he were _better at his job!_” The voice is no longer at your ear but shouting down the length of the bar at the bartender. You turn and see that the voice belongs to a man, one who is poised to snap his fingers at the bartender, as though that’s going to help the situation.

You snap your fingers in the man’s face before he can complete his own gesture. 

“How do you like it?” you ask. “They say you can tell everything you need to know about a person by how they treat the waitstaff.” 

You mean it as a sick burn, but as soon as you start speaking, you know there’s no way the stranger can hear you over the throbbing bass of the music. You’re just a weirdo who snaps her fingers in strange men’s faces.

Strangely enough, though, he does seem to have heard you. “You remind me of someone I know,” he says, and smiles. It’s a weird, lopsided smile, almost a smirk, and you can’t tell if it reaches his eyes, because he’s wearing sunglasses. Inside a damn-near pitch-dark club at one a.m., this guy is wearing sunglasses. He’s wearing sunglasses, his red hair has been product-ed into what you’re sure he thinks is a fashionable mess, and he’s wearing all black like some kind of Johnny Cash cosplay.

Rude to the bartender and a poser to boot. He’s an entire toolbox.

Red (His hair really is striking - you decide to call him Red until you learn his actual name or run far away.) leans over the bar a little, and you think that if he’s going to snap his fingers again, you’re going to kick him in the shin and see if you can sneak into the VIP room to get away from him. But instead he’s got a neatly folded fifty pound note sticking out between his knuckles - not waving it in the air like you would have expected, but displaying it just pointedly enough that when the bartender looks down the bar at you, he reclassifies you as “Big spenders. Priority: Highest” and legs it over to you.

“Bourbon for me and a bottle of water for the lady,” your new...friend? says to the bartender. “Keep the change.”

“Bottle of water and a shot of tequila for the lady,” you say quickly, before the bartender can turn around.

“Yeah, shot of tequila,” Red says. “Keep less of the change, I guess.” 

The water arrives first (It really did take about 10 seconds to get it out of the cooler.), and you gulp it down without stopping for breath. 

Red gives you that strange half-smile again. “Thirsty?”

“If that’s a come-on,” you say, gasping a little, “It’s the worst one I’ve heard all night.”

He leans his forearms on the bar to get closer to your ear - he must realize he can hear you better than you can hear him. “Heard many come-ons tonight? I saw you out there with the boy and the girl. Which one were you planning to go home with? Both?”

Okay, he’s still a toolbox in sunglasses, but with his voice right there in your ear (It’s a nice voice.) and his warm breath on the side of your face and your left side pressed against his right side at the crowded bar...it’s good. 

Good, but… 

“Who says I’m going home with anyone?” you say, lifting your chin like a challenge. “Generally, people go home with _me_”

He laughs at that, a rusty kind of not-chuckle that shouldn’t be sexy. Isn’t actually sexy, come to think of it. But he’s more attractive when he’s not trying so fucking hard. 

“I like you,” he says, like it’s a high compliment.

“Good. I was really desperate for your approval,” you shoot back, smiling despite yourself, because you almost feel sorry for him. This guy clearly thinks he has game, but he thinks he’s playing chess when he’s actually operating on more of a Snakes and Ladders level.

Maybe kind-of flirting with strange men in dark clubs while also maybe pissing them off is a bad idea, but you’ve made worse decisions.

The bartender is back with your drinks. He sets a second bottle of water on the bar next to your tequila. “You looked thirsty,” he says.

“See? Not a come-on!” Red says triumphantly, slapping the bar. “If I wanted to pick you up, I’d do much better than that.”

You start on the second bottle of water, drinking more slowly this time. 

Red continues, “For instance, if I wanted to pick you up, I’d say that I noticed you were just as friendly with that boy as you were that girl. And I’d say that a friend of mine and I are looking for someone to-”

You choke on your water. 

Once you stop sputtering, you have sufficient control over your face to roll your eyes. “Hey, thanks for the drink and everything,” you say, “but fuck off, unicorn hunter.” You start to turn your back to him.

He laughs again. “My friend’s a man. He’s the shy type - this isn’t really his scene. He’s on a bench outside, waiting for me to come out with a nice girl like you that we can take home and do unspeakable things to.” 

You turn back and look him up and down a little more closely this time. He’s tall and lanky - you’ve been known to go for that type. His ridiculous black jeans are practically painted on. He’s a little older than you usually prefer, but those sunglasses are resting on incredible cheekbones. 

A horrible, goblin part of your brain wonders if he’d keep the sunglasses on in bed.

“When you say ‘unspeakable,’ “ you say appraisingly, “what exactly are you talking about?”

“Can’t tell you. I mean, ‘unspeakable,’ ” Red says, grinning. “It’s right in the name.”

Are you...are you seriously considering letting a strange man take you to a second location with another man you haven’t even seen and do undisclosed things to your body?

Your apprehension must show on your face, because Red’s tone changes. “Look, I know. I’m not doing this well. Always been shit at this kind of temptation. But my friend outside...it’s our anniversary.” Oh god, he’s almost pleading. “And I promised him something special. Something _specific_. And you are specifically special. For this. And other things - I’m sure you’re good for a lot of other things as well.”

You down your shot of tequila and grab him by the elbow. “Let’s go, smooth talker,” you say. 

Why the fuck not? After all, you’ve made worse decisions.

* * *

It’s not actually cold yet, but the difference between the actual weather and the heat of the club is enough to break you out in goosebumps when you’ve made your way through the crowds and out the door. You’ve been leading Red by the elbow, but you let go and turn to him to see which way he goes to take you to his friend. He takes off down the street, and you trail behind a little. Holy cats, what is he doing with his _hips_? 

The horrible, goblin part of your brain starts plotting out angles of approach and plans of attack. 

You’re not sure who you were expecting to be in a relationship with this...this...whatever is going on here, but it certainly wasn’t the man you find on the bench. He’s probably about Red’s age, but that’s all they have in common. This man has pale blond hair that has certainly never seen product in its life. He’s round everywhere Red is sharp and bony. He’s wearing what you imagine would be the costume for the history professor in a prestige movie about a queer kid coming of age at a boarding school at the turn of the last century. He sits watching the people passing on the sidewalk, his hands folded primly in his lap.

“Hey angel!” Red calls. “Look what I found!”

When Angel (You decide you’ll just call him Angel until you hear otherwise.) hears Red’s voice, he turns and gives him a look like he thinks Red hung the stars. 

“Oh goodness,” Angel says. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back. I know how you can be about those dance clubs and their horrible music.”

How in the living _fuck_ did these two wind up together?

“Nah,” says Red. “I just needed time to find someone special for you.”

When Red says things like that, you try _so hard_ not to feel like you’re going to end the night in eight separate trash bags. Going home with strange men - it’s a great idea until someone gets dismembered. But when Angel looks in your eyes (which is a surprise; usually men look somewhere else first), you feel reassured. 

“Hello, dear,” he says to you. “I think we’re going to have a lovely time.” And yeah, now he’s looking somewhere else, except it’s Red he’s looking at.

Red rubs his hands together excitedly. “So, let’s get going?”

You plop yourself down on the bench next to Angel and fish your mobile out of your bag. You reach back and grab Red by the lapel and pull him close. 

“Say cheese!” And you take a selfie of the three of you. 

“Just a second and we can get out of here,” you say, and you send the customary text to your flatmate:

_Decided to stay out all night. If I get serial killed and don’t show up tomorrow, here’s my last known photo - tell the police to look for these two guys._

Over your shoulder, Red snorts. 

“It’s rude to read someone else’s texts,” you say, not looking up from your mobile. “Almost as rude as snapping your fingers at the bartender.”

“Really, dearest,” Angel says. “We’ve talked about how to treat people who are just working hard for a living.”

“Angel, I was going to get service one way or the other, and if it meant I needed to use a mir-”

“Uh-uh-uh,” says Angel. “Let’s not talk about that in front of our new friend.” He rises from the bench and honest-to-god offers you his arm. You take it, because what century even is this? Is he wearing a _waistcoat_? Is it _velvet_? “Now, we live just around the corner,” Angel continues. “Shall we repair to somewhere more comfortable?” 

None of this is comfortable. But it’s sure as hell not boring.

* * *

As you walk, Angel chats with you like you’re old friends. _Have you lived in London long? Oh, you just moved here! How exciting! You must be so busy exploring! Soho is so much different than it was just a few years ago, but my little patch hasn’t changed all that much. That little boutique used to be a striptease parlor, if you can imagine it!_

Yeah, you can imagine. Considering some of the things that are going down in the back rooms of a couple of the clubs around here, a strip joint would actually be pretty tame, based on your experience. But Red did say clubs really weren’t Angel’s scene. The way he dresses, it would take a miracle to get him past the doorman, anyway.

Still, he’s got his charms. While he carries a little extra bulk, you realize he seemed softer on first impression than he actually is, because anyone other than a runway model would look Rubenesque next to Red. Angel’s arm is firm and grounding where it links with yours, and while you could easily pull away, you get the impression that you wouldn’t be going anywhere if he didn’t let you. His eyes are greenish-blue or bluish-green, and they light up with joy as he talks about this part of the city. Or they do when he’s not making heart-eyes at Red.

Red saunters along, first in front of the two of you, then behind, sort of running defense like he’s watching for predators or something. Or like he’s circling prey his own self. In any case, you don’t walk far enough for the circling to get really annoying before Angel chivvies you up the steps of a storefront at the east side of an intersection of two streets. He opens the door without a key. 

_Who in London doesn’t lock their front door?_ you wonder as Angel holds the door open for you. You’re no longer worried about what’s going to happen to you tonight; Red is too busy trying to look suave to take the time to kill you, and Angel is probably too pleasantly absent-minded to remember to do it.

You walk into what is simultaneously the best and worst bookshop in the world. Its central feature is an enormous skylight - you imagine that, on nice days, the sun streams through and turns the air into gold. But the air is so full of dust and the scent of slowly decaying paper that you only narrowly avoid a sneezing fit. There’s a beautiful, sweeping staircase leading to an upper level, but on second glance, the handrail looks weak, and one or two of the steps might be rotten. The stacks stretch out in all directions, seemingly forever, but you can tell at a glance that there’s no sense of organization anywhere - on the table next to you, there are cookbooks, eighteenth-century novels and a book of astronomy that likely doesn’t list Pluto as a planet. Probably because Pluto hadn’t been discovered yet.

Angel watches you take it all in and smiles at you beatifically. “Are you a reader?” he asks.

“I mean, I like a good podcast,” you say. “And there’s always Twitter for on the bus or the Tube...” 

Red practically cackles with glee. Angel makes a noise like you’ve stolen his lunch money and called his mother ugly. 

“...but I have a soft spot for the Romantic poets,” you say quickly, realizing that you’re on thin ice with Angel. “We read them in school, and some of it stuck. _She walks in beauty like the night_, and all that.”

Red scoffs. “Byron was a wanker,” he says. “Ever ask yourself where he got the idea for the skull drinking-cup? Because let me tell you-”

“Something to drink, dear?” Angel asks, quickly changing the subject. “There’s tea, or cocoa-” 

“Or wine or scotch or bloody Jägermeister, if you want it,” Red snaps - he doesn’t seem to take kindly to being interrupted. “We’re having a threesome, angel, not a slumber party.” 

Angel blushes and drops the subject. The three of you stand some feet apart in the cluttered space, not meeting each other’s eyes. Red sticks his hands part of the way into his pockets (_Fashion victims get the pockets they deserve_, you think.) and Angel fusses with some books in a nearby display. 

Well, this is awkward.

“It is, isn’t it?” says Angel.

Oh. You said that out loud.

“Maybe if we went...you weren’t planning to do this in here, were you?” you ask, because it seems like the kind of thing it would be useful to clarify on a night like this.

“In front of the _books_?!” they say simultaneously, except Angel sounds scandalized and Red sounds like he might be ill.

“Right. There’s a start,” you say. “Let’s take this wherever you were planning to celebrate your anniversary, and we’ll start the party.”

Red downs his wine in a gulp (_Where did he get a glass of wine?_) and practically dashes toward a door in the back wall of the shop. Angel skittishly heads after him, and you shrug and follow. 

The door leads to a steep staircase, which in turn leads to a smallish flat that seems to hold more coziness than a set of rooms this size should be able to contain. The kitchen, you observe as you walk past, certainly holds a wine refrigerator larger than a room that size should be able to contain and still function as a place to prepare food. 

You pass through the sitting room (modern black leather sofa with tartan throw pillows, houseplants in pots modeled to look like ancient amphorae, flat-screen television on the wall and an antique gramophone on a table nearby) and a short hallway (portraits on the walls of men who must be Angel and Red’s ancestors, judging by the facial similarities and the many styles of historical clothing. And all Red's ancestors are wearing sunglasses? Are those this great-grandfather's shades or something?) and into the bedroom. 

The bedroom is small, in keeping with the rest of the flat, but there’s an enormous bed in here. It doesn’t seem like anyone gave much thought to choosing the frame itself - it’s dark wood and unremarkable in every way except for its size. Red paces around in what little space isn’t taken up by the bed. He’s showing every bit of the nervousness he was trying to cover up in the club with his too-cool posturing. Angel stands outside the doorway to let you pass and quietly closes the door behind you. He stands expectantly, fingers twitching at the hem of his waistcoat.

It’s dark, so you switch on one of the bedside lamps, and the light through the mica shade is warm. It seems to cling to Angel and slide right off Red, but then Angel is right behind you and Red is having some kind of nervous breakdown on the other side of the room.

“Look, are you two sure you actually want to do this?” you ask. “Because you seem like nice people, a nice couple-” Red makes a strangled sound. “-and I don’t want to fuck up your whole deal because one of you decided you’d like a little adventure.” 

Red opens his mouth to say something, but before he can make a sound, Angel steps up beside you and takes your hand. 

“We’re sure,” he says. “We just don’t have many visitors up to the flat, let alone into the bedroom.”

“ ‘Many’,” Red laughs. “Any!” 

Ok. First threesome. Middle-aged queer couple decides they’d like some spice for their anniversary, picks up a girl at the club and...there has to be a step three in this plan, or else you’re going to have one embarassing story to tell your flatmate tomorrow morning. Someone has to run this show; it should probably be someone who has done this kind of thing before. 

There’s a box of chocolate-covered cherries on the nightstand, spotlighted invitingly by the little lamp. You take a quick guess (it’s not a very tricky guess) about who they belong to and, looking Angel straight in the eye, pop one in your mouth. 

“Those were an anniversary present,” he protests.

“Mmmm. So am I,” you say around a mouthful of chocolate. “Or do you not mix your pleasures?”

Apparently he does, because the next thing you know, Angel pulls you firmly into a kiss. He doesn’t exactly ease into things, either; he has you in a firm-but-gentle grip, his hands migrating to your hips, but his kiss starts out rough. He licks the inside of your mouth like he’s after the last of the chocolate, which is a little gross, because hey, you were _eating_ that, but it’s not long before he gets a feel for your relative heights and the topography of your mouth and the kiss turns passionate.

Who would have thought Angel had it in him? Up until you made it to the flat, you would have laid money on Red being the first to make a move on you, even if it was just as a show of bravado. But Angel’s mouth is positively sinful (you hate yourself a little just having thought that) and you wouldn’t mind kissing him like this for a good long while. You do just that, letting him back you against the side of the bed and kissing back with equal fervor now. 

You break the kiss, startled, and look behind you when you feel another pair of hands covering Angel’s on your hips. You’d lost track of Red for a minute, but he’s taken the direct route from the other side of the room and crawled across the bed, kneeling now on the edge of the mattress. He pulls you both toward him, pressing your back to his thighs, and bends down over your left shoulder to kiss Angel. 

They both make hungry noises as they kiss. Apparently they _were_ into the idea of a threesome after all, because all it took was a little push from you for them to go from zero to sixty. You have a close-up view of the action, and it’s obvious that even though these two seem to have nothing in common, they are absolutely wild about each-

Wait. Does Red have a tattoo on his _face_? Oh god, he does. You’ve made questionable decisions before; you’ve made questionable decisions _tonight_, but you never thought you’d be the kind of person who sleeps with a person with a face tattoo. It’s not too late to back out with your dignity intact and keep up your record of not fucking people who wear their questionable decisions on their faces…

...but the noises Red and Angel are making, and they way Red’s hands are starting to stroke slowly up your torso toward your chest, and the way you can feel the heat of Angel’s body through the sixty or seventy layers of clothing he’s got on...it’s good.

“Right,” you say, a little breathlessly. “Before you two crush me to death between you, we need to set some ground rules.” 

They push off each other, and Red scoots on his knees a little further toward the headboard so he can see your face. He looks at you expectantly. Angel looks put out, like a child who’s dropped his lollipop on the carpet.

“First,” you say, “this ends whenever we say so. I say ‘stop,’ you say ‘stop,’ everything stops.” They nod. “Second: you decide to pull something weird, you tell me first. There are only certain bodily fluids I am prepared to deal with tonight.” Red looks amused, but Angel’s eyes are confused. Probably not something you have to worry about, then.

“Third,” you continue, “condoms. I’m crazy enough to have come home with you tonight, but I’m not crazy enough to walk out of here with a disease or worse.”

“Oh, I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Angel says.

“I do,” you say, firmly. “You want this to continue, you’ll wrap it up.”

Angel is starting to pout. “But we haven’t got any-” 

“Check your coat pocket, angel,” says Red. 

“But I’m certain I don’t...and it’s utterly unnecessary…” Angel sputters.

Red does that thing where you cough to cover up a word and think you’re being sneaky, but actually everyone can tell what you’re saying. Except the word “Nephilim” doesn’t mean anything to you - must be some kind of private joke between the two of them. 

Angel is instantly contrite. “My mistake,” he says, pulling a strip of condoms out of his coat pocket. “How silly of me. Had them right here all along.” 

Okay, well, that was a thing. “Those are my rules,” you say. “You have any to add?”

Angel raises his eyebrows and glances at Red, who shrugs. 

“Excellent,” you say, in a tone that makes you sound like you’ve won something. All you’ve done is negotiate a reasonable night of sex among consenting adults, but you know some men like it when they feel like they’re starting off on the back foot. You’re the one in charge here.

You give Angel another lingering kiss to mollify him over the condom thing and then clamber up on the bed next to Red. _Holy hell_, these linens. The white duvet is thick enough to lose yourself in for a month, and the sheets underneath are the heavy-but-soft kind you get in nice hotels, except they’re white in nice hotels, not black. It’s official: you can’t wait to be naked on this bed.

Red lost his shoes and socks and his jacket sometime while he was on the other side of the room, so you grasp the hem of his t-shirt and pull it up. The neckline catches on his sunglasses as it comes off over his head, knocking them askew, so you reach to take them off. 

He grabs your wrist as your hand approaches his face. “I suppose I do have a rule,” he says. “Glasses stay on.” 

“That’s… Okay, if that’s what you-”

“I have a condition,” he says quickly. “The light hurts my eyes. Even with the lamp off, the streetlights through the window are too much.”

“Right. No problem,” you say. Half of you feels bad for having mentally filed him away as a toolbox because of the sunglasses. The other half is composing a telegram: DEAR HORRIBLE GOBLIN STOP HE FUCKS WITH THE SUNGLASSES ON STOP.

He lets go of your wrist, and you cup his face in your hands. You’d lock eyes if that were an option, but it’s not, so you just lock lips. He reaches around and grabs your arse with both hands, pressing you closer together. 

“I can taste you on her, angel,” Red says against your lips, but clearly it was loud enough for Angel to hear, because he makes this noise that’s half pique and half desire. Or that’s what you get out of it - you’ve known the guy for half an hour, and you might be missing some of the nuances. 

You feel Red smile in response, and he goes back to thoroughly kissing you. You take your hands off his face and busy yourself undoing his belt and unfastening his flies. Getting him out of these jeans is going to be a project.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Red says, letting go of you and pulling at your outfit. Between the two of you, you make short work of your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the far side of the bed. Angel tuts and scoops them up to drape them over the footboard next to his own clothes, and _wow_, he got himself undressed fast. You’d think it would take a miracle to undo all those buttons in this amount of time.

“Now who’s ahead?” you ask, sliding your bare chest against Red’s and pulling at his jeans. You get them halfway down his thighs, and you see that he’s not wearing underwear and…

Oh, okay. That’s a surprise.

“Problem?” Red asks in a teasing tone. “You seemed to like the young lady at the club quite a bit.”

“Not what I was expecting,” you say, “but never let it be said that I’m not flexible.”

Red grins wolfishly. “We’ll hold you to that.”

“Lie down,” you say, smiling back. “This is going to be fun.”

You stay on your knees and use the leverage of higher ground to peel Red’s jeans the rest of the way off. You toss them to Angel, because he seems to care about the laundry even at a time like this. Apparently he cares a little less than before, because he doesn’t even turn them right-side out before he hangs them on the bedpost and climbs onto the bed beside you, taking a position to watch whatever comes next

Red is lying on his back, propped up by more pillows than are practical, even on a bed this big. He puts his hands behind his head, spreads his legs and inclines his head as if to say _Well, get on with it._

You’ve always taken instructions well. You straddle one of his thighs, reach down and gently run your hand over his mound, back to front, just to get the lay of the land. He’s already wet, but you can always improve the situation. He and Angel hiss indrawn breaths in tandem as you use two fingers to spread his outer labia and rub the inner lips with another. 

You feel Angel shift on the mattress next to you, and you see he’s slowly stroking his cock, his eyes locked on your right hand.

“You like to watch someone else touch him?” you ask Angel, putting your hand to his mouth. He closes his eyes and sucks your fingers greedily. “You used to tasting that on your own fingers instead? You wish you were me right now?” 

“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t done much more than pet me like a kitten,” Red grumbles. 

Oh, it’s _on_.

You pull your fingers out of Angel’s mouth; he leans forward for a few inches, following them away. You climb off Red’s leg and push at his shins so he bends his knees and puts his feet flat on the bed, which puts what you want right on display. You crouch between his legs, look him in the face, lick your lips and dive in to make a meal of him.

He tastes...well, he tastes like just about everyone else you’ve ever eaten out, but he makes fantastic sounds. Deep, rough groans come from low in his throat as you feel his thigh muscles tense up on either side of your head. Angel evidently likes what he hears, too, because you hear his answering moan. The leg on your left wobbles; you assume Angel’s put a hand on Red’s knee to steady himself while he jerks off.

“Oh, my love,” Angel says, voice uneven. “You should see your face.” You stick to your task, but you cast your gaze up over Red’s belly, and yeah, he’s a sight to behold. His head is thrown back, exposing the long line of this throat, where his prominent adam’s apple bobs as he gasps and groans. His hands thread through your hair, not pulling, but definitely holding you where he wants you. You feel justified in prematurely congratulating yourself on a job well done.

Angel takes his hand from Red’s knee and puts it on the small of your back. “Would you mind terribly if I were to...that is to say-”

“He wants to know if he can fuck you,” Red rasps, still staring at the ceiling.

“Just so.”

You don’t stop licking, but you hum your assent. 

“_Ohshit, angel, she says yes,_” Red half-shouts, his hips bucking up.

“Glad to hear it,” Angel laughs. You hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper - he’s being a good boy and doing as you asked. There’s the weird latex-on-skin noise of Angel rolling the condom on, and then you feel him kneel behind you.

Angel’s hands are on you. “If you wouldn’t mind…” he says, pulling your hips up a little higher; you’re basically in child’s pose between Red’s legs. It changes the angle of your mouth on Red, and you use it as an opportunity to start in on his clit in earnest. He makes a noise that he’d probably find embarrassing if he were fully in control of himself, and Angel...Jesus, he _growls_, which you were _not_ expecting at all. 

The scent and taste and slick of Red all over your face has you wet, but Angel is considerate (which you _were_ expecting) and fingers you a little while you torture Red’s clit. You do your best to transmit Angel’s movements to Red with your tongue, just for the novelty of letting Angel fiddle with his boyfriend/husband (You probably should have gotten some clarity on the relationships here.) through you. You hope Angel and Red appreciate your efforts to bring them closer together, because what Angel’s doing is getting _very_ distracting.

Angel has two fingers - maybe three; you’re not really counting - inside you when he hits that one spot, and you exclaim a muffled “Mmmmmph!” against Red.

“Just fuck her, angel,” he grinds out. “I’m close, but I want to see if she can keep it up while- oh _fuck!_”

You cut him off by adding one of your hands to the mix, rubbing little circles on his clit while laving your tongue inside him. Angel takes that moment to line himself up and slide into your own entrance, and as he starts to thrust, you have to take your fingers off Red’s clit and grab his hip.

Between Angel firmly holding your hips in place, Red tightening his grip on your head to keep you from breaking your nose on his pelvis or something, and your hand braced against him, the three of you manage to find a pace and a rhythm that works for all of you. Red is still groaning his pleasure, and from behind you, you hear Angel breathing heavily in time with his thrusts. 

It’s not long before you find yourself pressing high-pitched moans into Red’s wet heat. Angel loosens his grip on you, and Red bucks his hips up to meet you as you’re pushed forward, sucking on his clit the whole time. It doesn’t take much of that before Red’s hands tighten in your hair and he convulses. You feel his orgasm rattling down his long legs and twitching underneath your lips and tongue.

It lasts a while, because damn it, you’re good at what you do. But when his limbs go loose and the moaning stops, he scoots up the bed and away from you. “Too much,” he croaks. “Too sensitive.”

You prop yourself up on your forearms and grin at him. It feels feral on your face. “Was it fun?” you gasp as Angel fucks you even harder now that there’s no resistance in front of you. “It was, wasn’t it? I told you it would be fun.”

“Smartarse,” Red says, grabbing your chin, presumably to look you in the eye. Your chin, as it happens, is slick with his own juices. It doesn’t seem to faze him. “Angel, I need you to absolutely _ruin_ her. Shut her up for me.”

“I’ll...do...my best,” Angel grunts, thrusting harder. You keep your eyes locked on Red’s sunglasses, smirking all the while.

“Have to do better than that,” you pant. Honestly, it’s turning into an effort to keep the sass-tap trickling, but you don’t want to give Red the satisfaction of seeing you lose your words.

Angel, despite being preoccupied by giving you a hell of a railing, is wise to what you’re up to. In one smooth motion, he scoops his right arm under your chest, sits back on his calves and pulls you into his lap. The new angle is what does it - sharp little cries are all you can produce as Angel reaches around with his left hand and starts rubbing your clit in counterpoint to his thrusts. By the time you come, you’ve thrown your head back on his shoulder, and you make an ugly, broken noise that still sounds like nothing but pleasure. 

When you come back to yourself, Angel’s timing is off, and you know he’s close. You’re fucked out, but you still have the wherewithal to clench around him and turn your head to nip at his ear. You bet the ear thing is a trick of Red’s you’ve purloined by accident, because Angel shouts, and his body stiffens behind and beneath you as he comes. 

All the strength seems to leave him once he’s finished; the arm holding you up lets go, and you let yourself slide off him. On your knees, you turn around and kiss him before he can even catch his breath. You know he can still smell and taste Red all over you, because he breaks away and scents his way all across the lower half of your face. You laugh and push him away, holding his shoulders at arm’s length. 

“How was that?” you ask. “He said you wanted something specific for your anniversary. Was that what you wanted?” You look over your shoulder and wink at Red. “Was it _specifically special_?” 

“It’s been wonderful so far,” Angel says. He looks a little dazed, but his gaze quickly clears and takes on an intention that makes your heart skip a beat. “I don’t think we’re done yet, though.”

Things move very quickly. You squeal with surprise as Angel scoops you up and deposits you with your back to the headboard, lifting you right over Red, who’s crawling down the bed to trade places with you. You can feel where the sheets are still warm from his body, which is almost a disappointment - this bed is decadent; you don’t want it to feel _used_. 

You don’t have much time to feel let down, though, because Red is manhandling your legs into position and crouching between them. He has a hand on each of your ankles, and he’s looking up at you, eyebrows raised above the frames of his glasses. 

“Ready for a taste of your own medicine?” he asks. “Prepared to let me lick you until you can’t tell up from down? In a position to let someone ask a bunch of bloody stupid questions when they could be-”

“Alright, I get your point,” you growl, and thrust your hips upward a little. “Any time now.”

“Greedy thing,” Red says.

“I’m not ashamed,” you reply. “I am as god made me.”

“This is too much,” Red grouses, and sets to the matter at hand. 

Or he would, but the frames of his glasses are always digging into something or pinching somewhere no matter what angle he tries. He snarls in frustration and takes them off. You’re actually pretty excited to get a look at his eyes (green, you bet, with his coloring), but he has his eyes closed when the lenses are pulled away. He holds the glasses up for Angel, who takes them and gently puts them on the nightstand. 

“Where was I?” Red asks with a sharp smile (which is weird with his eyes closed, but this whole thing is weird) and sets himself to eating you out like he’s paid by the hour. 

You pride yourself on your craftsmanship. Your work on Red earlier was first-rate, if you say so yourself. But _man alive_, Red can do really weird things with his tongue. You absently consider asking him out for coffee tomorrow to discuss technique, because this is all honestly stuff you should have in your bag of tricks. He should be teaching seminars. 

You lose your train of thought and plant one hand on the bed while your other pulls at the roots of your own hair, just to have a feeling that grounds you. You’ve come once tonight, and you know you’re likely to fall prey to the same oversensitivity issue Red ran into earlier. 

He’s got his tongue deep (like, _way_ deep) inside you, and he’s rubbing - almost grinding - his face against your crotch such that it stimulates every bit of you. You groan out an enormous sigh, trying to release the tension that’s building in your chest. 

“I know you’re trying your hardest, sweetheart,” Angel says, leaning forward to speak directly in Red’s right ear, “but she seems very relaxed from my point of view. I’ve a feeling you can do better.” 

Red pulls away from you and scowls at him. “If you’re so keen, maybe I could reduce her to jelly more efficiently if I had some inspiration” 

“Really, dear? You said you’d had too much of that.”

“Yeah, you did,” you chime in. “Didn’t you?”

“I will not be mocked in my own bed,” Red growls, and tweaks your clit. You yelp with pleasure and decide to shut up and let them work it out. Red will be back on the line soon enough.

“It’s just that I would hate to cause you any pain,” Angel says in a way that implies he means nothing of the sort. 

“Do me the usual way,” Red says, “and I don’t think we’ll run into a problem.” 

“It’s nothing but problems with you,” Angel replies, but it sounds fond. Softness seems out of place in this scene, but it’s kind of nice to see an old married couple (They’ve got to be married, right?) appear to run through a song and dance they’ve done a thousand times before. 

Angel straightens up (The used condom is gone somewhere, which, great - those things are gross once they’ve served their purpose.) and positions himself behind Red, lifting Red’s hips the way he’d lifted yours. You’re a little shocked to see that a man his age could be hard again already - he should be selling some kind of supplements while Red gives his seminars.

Red seems to realize he’s been neglecting you, and he starts nipping little bites on your inner thighs while Angel situates himself. Angel’s not wearing a condom, but what they do to each other is none of your business. 

Red bites a little harder than you’d like, and you both gasp. You look down his body to see Angel fingering Red’s arsehole, and that’s not normally a thing for you, but the look of concentration on Angel’s face is hot as all hell.

“Do you mind if I do this the usual way as well?” Angel asks Red.

“I don’t care,” Red hisses, which seems like it should be more difficult in a sentence with no sibilants. “She’s not going to notice.”

“What am I not going to- _oh fuck_!” Red has your clit gently between his teeth, and he’s flicking his tongue back and forth over your favorite bundle of nerves on the human body. But you’re biased at the moment.

You bang your head back against the headboard, eyes closed, arms stiff with both hands pressing down into the mattress to keep yourself from sliding bonelessly down the bed. Red lets go of you and makes an indecent noise, which is really saying something, given the night you’re having. 

You open your eyes and work for a second to focus your eyes. When you look at Red and Angel again, Angel is balls-deep in Red, eyes closed, mouth open, looking like there’s nowhere in heaven or earth he’d rather be. Angel really got Red worked open fast, but they’re undoubtedly used to each other’s bodies. You don’t see the lube (_Did Angel have lube?_) anywhere; you assume he tossed the bottle on the floor.

Whatever. The lube isn’t your damned problem right now. Red is a little too absorbed in getting fucked and isn’t paying any attention to you. Like you said, you’re not ashamed of being greedy, of taking what you want. You reach down, grab a fistfull of Red’s hair, and pull him back toward you.

“Oh, I hate you _so much_,” Red gasps, but you’re pretty sure he doesn’t mean it, because it’s not like he shakes loose of your grip as he settles his face back in between your legs. 

Angel is using his earlier experience balancing this equation to help you and Red quickly find a way to keep from hurting each other while he steadily fucks Red into you. You slide down a bit, and Red’s brows knit above his closed eyes as he struggles a little not to suffocate. He wiggles his way backward, and Angel moans in satisfaction. He’s thrusting harder now, pushing Red forward, and you brace your hand against the headboard in the hopes that you can stop concentrating on this tug-of-war and just get off.

It’s a winning combination - Red licking you up and down and Angel taking him from behind, driving the rhythm of the whole encounter. But Angel is clearly on a hair trigger after your earlier go-round; he’s making noises that herald the elusive male orgasm. He squeezes his eyes shut, tightens his grip on Red (goodness, that’s going to bruise), and his hips stutter as he flexes his shoulders backward and-

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Are those fucking _wings_?

Yeah, those are wings. Big, white, fuck-off _wings_, spread out and practically brushing the walls.

You scream, and it’s pretty obviously not a sound of pleasure, because Red jerks his head up. His eyes, startled wide open, meet yours.

That. That is also not right. Yellow you could almost believe, but the slit pupils are...oh that’s fucked up. Maybe they’re cosplay contacts. But if they were, why would he have gone through so much trouble to hide them? An aggravating fucker like Red would have shown them off.

Things are _very_ wrong here, and they’re going downhill fast. You contract into a ball and either roll or levitate off the bed - you’re not sure which.

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Red spits out as you knock over the lamp on the bedside table. The shifting light source makes the shadows of Angel’s wings (_Oh god, Angel has wings._) even weirder against the walls. 

You have to get out of here - it doesn’t matter that your clothes are on the other side of the room; staying in this building isn’t even an option. You lunge for the door, and behind you (amidst the cursing and shuffling of blankets and _rustling of feathers_, are you fucking _kidding?_), you hear someone snap their fingers. 

The door’s locked. That doesn’t even make any sense - you know Angel didn’t lock the door when you came in. You were right there. You would have noticed. _The door doesn’t even have a keyhole._

You frantically try the doorknob a few more times and give it up for a lost cause. Red (His eyes are just _wrong_!) and Angel (Oh shit, an _angel_!) are between you and the window, and you don’t want to go anywhere near them. You press yourself into the corner, eyes wide.

“What the fuck, what the _fuck_, what the FUCK?!” you repeat over and over. It’s one of the only thoughts you can muster. Wings: present; eyes: scary; door: locked; _what the fuck_. You think you might hyperventilate at this rate.

Red rounds on Angel. “Nice. Very nice indeed, angel. I was going to get off twice tonight, but nooooo! You had to ruin the mood. Your self control is _shit_.” He makes some sputtering sounds like his throat is a car with an engine that won’t turn over. 

“Well I’m sure I’m very sorry, Crowley,” Angel snaps. “But this is _not_ all my doing. You looked her straight in the eye.” He flexes his shoulders again, and the wings vanish as quickly as they appeared. 

You make a noise like a teakettle and throw yourself at the door. Maybe you can break it down.

“Oh would you _calm down_?” Red says pettishly. He snaps his fingers, and you can’t move, you can’t speak, you’re trapped inside yourself. You’ve never been so frightened. Someone must have drugged your drink. This is a nightmare. You’re dreaming. If you die in a dream like this, do you die in real life? 

“Fan-fucking-tastic. You know what this all means, Aziraphale?” Red is ranting as he pulls his jeans back on, hopping on one foot. His weird eyes are glaring at Angel. “We’re going to have to mess with her memory. And I know how much you love that.”

“I know!” Angel frets. “I was just having such a lovely time and you were so...you, and she was making those noises, and I forgot myself.”

“Well, she’s going to have to forget a great deal more,” Red says, pushing Angel towards you. “This is your fault - you do it.”

You fight to move with every muscle in your body, every bit of will you have, because this is it - this is how you die. You always expected something more dramatic than this. But really, what’s more dramatic than being taken out by an actual angel and...maybe a demon? Is that a thing too? Don’t demons have horns and tails? 

You wish your final thoughts were more meaningful. 

“I’m sorry, dear. You really were lovely,” Angel says. It sounds like a genuine apology. And then he snaps his fingers in the space between your faces.

* * *

You wake up in your little bed in your best-we-can-afford flat. You blink at the ceiling and smile. You were having the nicest dream: you were a child again, catching tadpoles in the stream behind your grandfather’s cottage. The cottage was sold long ago, but you used to like being there so very much. 

You pick up your mobile from the bedside table and tap the fingerprint sensor. The messaging app is still open, and you see you have a text in drafts:

_Decided to stay out all night. If I get serial killed and don’t show up tomorrow, here’s my last known photo - tell the police to look for these two guys._

You frown. You didn’t go home with anyone at all last night. You went to the club, danced for a couple of hours and went home when you started to feel light-headed. It’s a pity, because you had hoped to get lucky, but those are the facts.

The text mentions a picture, but there isn’t one attached. You open the photos app. There’s the picture of your flatmate asleep and drooling on the sofa cushions during her Saturday-afternoon nap, there’s the selfie you took to prove how good you looked when you left for the club last night, and there’s a dark, blurry photo that looks like you accidentally tapped the button as you put your mobile in your bag or something.

This is weird. If you’d had the chance for a threesome last night, you would have pounced on it, even if it was with a couple of strangers. After all, you’ve made worse decisions.

Frowning, you put your mobile back on the nightstand next to...a box of chocolate-covered cherries? You must have been drunker than you thought to have stopped to buy candy on the way home and not remember it.

You peel the cellophane off the box, lift the lid and pop a morsel in your mouth. You lie back on the pillows, and a horrible, goblin part of your mind starts to play out a fantasy about what it would have been like to have your way with two men last night. 

You drift back to sleep with chocolate melting on your tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on [Tumblr](https://junietwohundred.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/juniper200)


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